


Sacrifice

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [44]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 14:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13719864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: Lance is a klutz.  Arthur helps.





	Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> College years.

  
Arthur had to shove hard at the door in order to get it open, and the sight that met his eyes when he did -

"What happened?"

He dropped his backpack and helmet on the table haphazardly, the keys he held twined in the fingers of his right hand jangling loudly as he let them go, the metal clanging against the side of his boot and coming to rest next to a dumped over beer bottle and a wrench from his toolkit.

"Lance?" Arthur stepped over a broken piece of plywood and two screws; he had to dance a bit to avoid slipping on them at the last minute. There were bits of paper and a hammer and about four hundred nails and - _was that Lance's phone, all smashed on the ground?_

_Is that my toolbox?_

He maneuvered gingerly around what he thought had been their coffee table and found Lance sitting on the floor, head in hands, an open container of Hagaan Daas ice cream and two beer mugs balanced precariously on a book next to him, its spine broken. Arthur winced at that but squatted next to Lance, who was making weird noises behind his fingers, one of which looked like it had been smashed with something hard enough to bruise and bleed.

"Um...wha-"

"Okay, so I broke the screw that held this leg on," Lance interrupted, his words tremulous and full of tears, raising the broken piece of table leg in his left hand and shaking it, which made Arthur bite back an inappropriate smile despite the despair in Lance's tone. His face was red and blotchy and snot was crusted under his nostrils, his eyes still full. "And when I went to get stuff to fix it, I dropped my phone on top of your toolbox. So then I reached for it, but the stupid fucking toolbox turned over, and my phone was smashed into a zillion pieces. Then I tripped over the three legged wonder here," he pointed with the leg at the pathetic remnants of the coffee table, "and instead of just jumping over it, I fell _on_ it, and well, you see the result." He sniffed and wiped at his eyes, wetness smearing, teardrops collecting like jewels in his dusky lashes. "And I tried to fix it, really. I'm not so useless, you know, but fuck's sake, it was just too late! And then when I went to pick up the dropped tools the fucking hammer was loose in my grip and I fucking smashed my fucking pinky!" He held it up, the light from their lamps and the sun that slanted in sideways through the blinds (gorgeous day, Arthur thought, quickly snapping back to Lance's story when the other man actually growled) casting his hand into worse shadow, making the burgeoning bruise angry and dark. Arthur made an _mmmmm_ noise, sympathizing, but Lance snatched his hand back before Arthur could take it.

"And then my father called and then my classmate Gal called and they fucking moved our English final up! To tomorrow! So I'm trying to study and catch up and this fucking table, Arthur. Jesus!"

Arthur's mouth - he'd been trying to hide a growing smile throughout Lance's story - curled helplessly and he bit down on his tongue even as the other man glared at him through tears. "I," he finally said after a moment, his eyes belying the forced solemness of his lips. "I'm - wow, I'm sorry, Lance." He let loose a sound that could have been a _sorry_ groan, but Lance frowned at him and wiped his eyes again.

"Stop fucking laughing, you asshat. This has been a psychotic day and the last thing I need is for you to laugh at me." He took a slug of whatever concoction was in the beer mug, draining it, and then picked up the second one and slugged half of that one down. He belched and wiped a hand over his lips, and Arthur cocked an eyebrow. He sat on the ground next to Lance, his leathers creaking, his knees thanking him silently for finally not squatting. "What is that?" He pointed at the mugs.

The sun was nearing setting and Lance staggered up from his seated position, crunching over the bits of whatever was under his feet (Arthur was happy to see him wearing his shoes; at least he wasn't barefoot) and closed the blinds, cutting out the glare from the California twilight. "Beer float. I have more if you want." He burped again and collapsed bonelessly on the sofa, throwing his arm over his forehead. "Fucking fuck."

Arthur did laugh then, rising and turning on the kitchen light in order to survey the mess he knew he would be cleaning up. "A beer float? Are you kidding me?" He crossed back to the detritus of their destroyed table and picked up the mug, smelling it. "Is it any good?"

"Fucking great," Lance said, his foot dropping to rest on the floor. "I can't face this today, Arthur." He lowered his arm and turned his head, his hair catching on the pillows as he looked at Arthur. "I'll get it tomorrow. Okay?" His tone, pathetic and whiny, made Arthur roll his eyes as he stepped out of his leather pants and hung them from the bars he'd installed on the kitchen door that lead to the garage. His jeans were wet from sweat, but he didn't care and crossed the small room to sit next to Lance on the couch as he surveyed the broken table and the bits of paper and the hammer and nails and screws and open ice cream container. He shook his head, the laugh that burbled out only a bit annoyed.

"I'll get it. Just go study, okay? And no more beer floats." He squeezed Lance's calf through his jeans gently, the other man moaning and scrubbing at his face roughly.

Lance sat up and swayed a bit, the amount of alcohol he'd had more than just the two Arthur could see, apparently. "Okay," Lance acquiesced, the word long and drawn out and Arthur sighed again, this time loudly.

"Just do it," Arthur directed as he rose off the couch, hands on hips, trying to figure out what, if anything, was salvageable. "I'll get this." He pulled a trash bag from the kitchen and tied it to one of their chair backs, kneeling to sort through the mess, looking for his tools first.

Lance leaned over him wearily, pressing his chest to Arthur's back, the thin tank Lance wore allowing the heat from his skin to imprint itself onto Arthur's skin. He shivered, despite the warmth of the day and his clothing. "Thank you," Lance said in his ear, and kissed the shell of it sloppily. Arthur shook his head but smiled slowly, kneeling back up as Lance picked up his broken spine-d book and made to head for his room.

Arthur stayed on his knees for a moment after finding all the tools and setting them back in the box, having righted it. He listened for Lance to shut his door, or to make grumbly noises, or to bitch about his test or the day. When he didn't hear anything, he narrowed his eyes and got up, carrying the toolbox with him as he approached Lance's door.

He canted his head and watched Lance as he sat on his bed, examining the smashed pinky, cursing under his breath. He watched as Lance reached for his phone, cursing again more loudly when he realized it was part of the whirlwind of destruction that was the living room. He kept watching when Lance flopped onto his belly, flipped his book open, stuck his iPod buds in his ears and crossed his feet, shoes still on, lips moving silently as he read.

He watched - and the smile that bloomed on Lance's face when he entered Lance's room and leaned over and kissed the side of Lance's mouth was worth the smashed table and nails and screws and trashed carpet and crushed smartphone and disorganized toolbox.

Lance looked up at him and popped one of his earbuds out, the tinny voice of Johnny Cash barely audible to Arthur. Lance reached out a hand and wrapped his fingers, smashed one purple and red and yellow, into the curls at Arthur's nape and dragged him closer, kissing Arthur this time, his mouth sticky and tasting like sugar and Negro Modelo. Arthur smiled and started to say something but Lance merely pressed his lips to Arthur's again, and this time Arthur let go of his toolbox and knelt at Lance's side and kissed back.

"Stop breaking things," he whispered finally, and Lance bit his lower lip. Gently. Then hard enough for Arthur to suck in a breath and wind his fingers more tightly in the material at the small of Lance's back. The skin he felt was warm and smooth and the downy hair under his hand was fuzzy and soft and Lance smelled good despite the beer and ice cream and dried tears and Arthur sighed and closed his eyes -

Neither of them cared that the littered, destroyed living room stayed that way till morning.


End file.
